


Out of the Flames

by PhoenixTwins



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: HP: EWE, Multi, Post-War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-09-15 20:02:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9254183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixTwins/pseuds/PhoenixTwins
Summary: Of pain and love, and hope and healing. This is a story of survival. "From the embers healing was found. A spark was ignited and love was born. Out of the flames redemption was won".





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> RATED E: for adult language, sexual situations, and violence.
> 
> WARNING: Please be aware of the darkish/angsty nature of this story. We are dealing with a post-war world, and the Death Eaters we will encounter bring with them unsavory topics which can sometimes be triggering to readers. We have chosen to allow the story to unfold organically and without warning at the beginning of each chapter, much in the way a true novel is organized. This decision was made in order to give the reader the full experience of the story as it is intended, and we feel that warnings would ruin the suspense and surprise going into the chapter if they were to be included.
> 
> While reading Out of the Flames, one might encounter any of the following elements: murder, death of major canon characters, torture, discussions of previous suicide attempts, brief allusions to rape/attempted rape, drug abuse/addiction, and general Death Eater drama. These topics will be handled with sensitivity and will not be overly detailed or gratuitous.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: We do not own Harry Potter. We bow down to kiss the robes of J.K. Rowling for loaning us her characters in this tale of a Dramione romance, but she holds the copyright, and we do not profit off of this story in any way. Any Harry Potter themes, elements, or characters that are recognizable to the reader are JKR's alone.
> 
> THANKS: This story would not be possible without the incredible team of people who support us and push us to make this story something excellent. Each of these women have helped in various ways, including alpha reading, beta reading and editing, creating aesthetics and art, Brit picking, promoting and recommending, and generally keeping us going when we have felt unable to do our ideas justice. We are forever indebted to you! SO much love.
> 
> Clairebellaou, ErisAceso, goldensnitch18, olivieblake, thewaterfalcon
> 
> Please note, some of dialogue in this chapter is stripped straight from Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows itself during the Final Battle. We do not claim those words, but we do claim the look from a different character's POV.
> 
> Oh, and we changed the ending of DH. ~rubs hands together~
> 
> Enjoy the ride! EWE!

CHAPTER ONE

Dust, bits of shattered stone, splintered wood, broken bodies, and the horrifying smell of blood littered the cold stone floor. The Great Hall was was unrecognizable. He could hardly see through the thickness of it all. The sounds that came from every corner of the room were filled with pain and fear. Fear of dying, fear of being overcome, fear of what was next. As he watched the Dark Lord strike every man, woman, and child that came close, he found himself flooded with that same fear. Draco Malfoy didn't want to die, but he didn't want to live under this madman either.

He cowered in the corner behind an upturned bench; being wandless during this battle was a death wish, and he swore to Salazar himself to somehow get out of this alive. He wasn't sure where any of his allies were. Where were Blaise and Theo? Where did his parents go? They were all standing right next to him when Neville cut Nagini's head off, but his body moved him without recognition, and he was separated from them.

From out of the kitchens, house-elves swarmed the battle, and it became harder to hide inconspicuously along the wall as the fear of being noticed grew. He watched, somewhat disconnected, as Yaxley hit the ground, and as Macnair flew through the air hitting the stone wall with a sickening sound, blood leaking from his hairline as he slid to the floor. The Dark Lord stood in the center of the room cackling with mad glee as he battled McGonagall, Slughorn, and Kingsley.

Draco heard the unmistakable sound of fury and turned to watch as Molly Weasley thundered across the floor, panting heavily as she stormed into the duel closest to him. "NOT MY DAUGHTER, YOU BITCH!"

Bellatrix, his unstable aunt, was throwing curse after curse at Molly Weasley. Bellatrix's face was an easy shade of cream, showing no sign of strain and even a bit of pleasure. The light danced between the two witches as they aimed curses to maim and kill.

She taunted the Weasley matriarch. "What will happen to your children when I've killed you? When Mummy's gone the same way as Freddie?"

Draco had never seen such a change in a person before. He watched as Molly's face turned red with the effort of fighting and she swore, "You - will - never - touch - our - children - again!"

Bellatrix threw her head back in twisted delight, dark hair tumbling down her back. He watched as a curse flew straight into her chest, her head still back from her maniacal laughter, eyes widening with the realization of what her opponent had just done. She crumpled to the ground, dead. She would not be grieved by him or anyone else, and he did not feel the slightest pang of guilt over that fact.

Draco could not believe his eyes. He never thought anyone could be more terrifying or threatening than his aunt, except, of course, Lord Voldemort himself; but Molly Weasley defending her family was one to rival that title.

The Light was going to win this, he concluded to himself, hope springing up amidst the terror in him. He only needed to stay hidden and ride this out long enough to stay alive, and then he would be free. He didn't want to be in this fight; this is not what he signed up for, what felt like centuries ago, when he took that Mark. The Dark Lord was supposed to be the answer to their family's safety and restoration of their good name among purebloods. However, this battle, he was painfully aware, was suicide. Just stay down, and you'll survive.

Time passed slowly and quickly, all at once. His thoughts of survival were the background to his quiet, and seemingly calm observation of the pandemonium ensuing around him. He should be more panicked than he was, but logic and reason don't really insert themselves into war, and Draco couldn't be bothered to remove his feet from the spot against the wall where he stood frozen. He looked to the woman who had taken down Bellatrix Lestrange and met the eyes of her daughter Ginevra Weasley; full of fire and something else he couldn't place. He noticed there was no fear in her eyes, like so many surrounding them. Their contact only lasted a second, preventing him from understanding what emotion replaced her fear. His misplaced curiosity was interrupted by a chilling shriek which shattered through the air, filling the entire room with dread, as Voldemort screamed in angst at his most loyal servant's defeat.

"PROTEGO!"

Craning his neck so fast it was painful, he shifted to stare at the voice that cast a Shield Charm from the center of the room. Harry Potter was emerging from under a cloak. People all around were whispering his name, some shouting, "He's alive!" The voices were immediately stifled as Voldemort and Harry began to circle one another. Almost every scrimmage paused as the Great Hall took notice of the two enemies finally meeting. Draco watched as they conversed, his thoughts shifting in and out as he tried to focus on their words while hazily considering the implications of them. They were talking of love, and power, Dumbledore and Snape, and then of wands; the Elder Wand. Wasn't that a child's story? Are we fucking reading bedtime stories while people bleed all around us? Moments later, Draco unmistakably heard his name as he was torn from his rumination. "The true master of the Elder Wand was Draco Malfoy."

He leaned against the stone wall as he cowered in fear, the reality of what was happening crashing in around him.

Voldemort replied to Harry's latest statement with complete confidence, "But what does it matter? Even if you are right, Potter. It makes no difference to you and me. You no longer have the phoenix wand. We duel on skill alone… and after I have killed you, I can attend to Draco Malfoy…"

Draco noticed all feeling fall from his body. His legs gave way, and he slid to his backside on the debris covered floor. The Dark Lord will not stop until I am dead. I have to run. I have to leave. Thoughts of survival shifted Draco's being, motivating him to flee, and he hastily scrambled to his feet. As soon as he moved to leave his hiding spot, the blazing light of the rising sun shone down through the highest windows in the Great Hall. Draco's opportunity for escape was cut off as the sun's light struck his eyes and obscured his vision, causing him to fall to the ground once more. It felt like hours, but it was probably only seconds, when he heard Voldemort's curse, and collected himself enough to see the green light head towards the Boy Who Lived. The prominent lightning bolt scar on his sweat slicked forehead was evidence of his surviving this same curse years ago. The Boy, who was now a powerful wizard in his own right, could survive again; he had to. The green light was dispersed with a golden light from Harry's wand. Their wands seemed to connect to each other, fighting for dominance over one another as if they acted with their own power. Draco was hypnotized for a breath as he watched this strange magic take place before him; it was unlike anything he had ever seen or heard of. The mingling of their magic blinded the transfixed crowd, and Draco snapped his eyes tightly shut. He could feel a distinct chill in the air despite the warmth of the sun's golden rays empowering the Hall. All sounds were stripped from the room as the weight of incredibly powerful magic trembled around them in perfect silence.

As the wand's light faded, the voices began to return around him. Whispers of, "Is he dead?" and, "No, he can't be," and, "Round them up. This doesn't end here."

Chaos broke out from the resulting duel. He watched, dumbstruck, as Death Eaters tore their masks of and began to fight in earnest. They attacked children like they would their peers, throwing Dark Curses at anyone who crossed their paths. Draco didn't know where to turn to exit the upheaval, and he frantically searched for an opening in the ferocious mob.

"Draco, run! We have to get out of here." Blaise Zabini was suddenly there pulling him by his arm towards the doors of the Great Hall. He felt the surge of people around him, some running, others fighting, most falling to their deaths. As he found himself slipping from the devastated rubble of where he used to eat meals with his classmates, he couldn't help but look back at the destruction. His eyes focused on a body in the center of the room. A head of black hair was hardly noticeable as a sobbing form draped themselves over Harry's lifeless body; her wild, golden curls splayed over Harry's face as she buried her head in his neck. He didn't have time to observe anything more as he was firmly yanked into the Entrance Hall.

Once in the Entrance Hall, they began fighting their way towards the massive oak doors. Flashes of all colors danced around them as hexes and curses were flying everywhere, rebounding off walls and Shield Charms, and then ricocheting into the crowd. Draco saw a red light heading their way from the staircase, and he pulled Blaise down to the ground just in time to have the hex hit the Slytherin hourglass causing emeralds to rain down across the floor.

"Well, well, well, who do we have here? Running away, are we boys?"

Draco and Blaise looked up into the enormous face of Rodolphus Lestrange. Having seen this man on many occasions, Draco knew he was not a man to go up against. This man was spoon fed by his wife and Lord. They were able to keep him chained to do their bidding, but in return, they gave him every indulgence of his sociopathic wants and needs. Now that they were gone what would become of him? Who would he become now that the leash had been taken off?

Draco donned his best sneer, one that came naturally even in the fear of death, and lifted his face to answer the unmasked Death Eater.

"Actually, Uncle, we are headed to the grounds to round up the remaining traitors. Come help us."

He noticed that Blaise held his breath next to him, nails digging into his arm. Rodolphus noticed Blaise's demeanor as well, and turned to him. "You, boy. Who are you?"

Before Blaise had a chance to answer, Rodolphus was knocked backwards. He flew up into the air and fell to an ungraceful heap on a nearby staircase that promptly moved, obstructing his uncle from their view. They looked sideways as Theo Nott was sauntering towards them. He seemed to be holding up a limping and bleeding Astoria Greengrass. "I didn't think I'd need to save you two so quickly. Come on, let's get the fuck out of here before we end up as Death Eater hors d'oeuvre."

The four of them left the broken doors of Hogwarts into the early morning light and made their way as quickly as possible towards the Forbidden Forest. They didn't have a clue where they would go, or how to even get there, but with Death Eaters hunting all living souls, and the Acromantula not caring which side anyone fought on, they knew they had no choice but to hide.

Theo struggled with Astoria, and she let out a cry of pain as they toppled over something in the grass. Draco and Blaise looked back at the fallen pair as Astoria let out the most tormented scream Draco had heard in the course of the battle that day. Across the grass of the grounds they could see bodies scattered everywhere, their decaying flesh causing a putrid steam to rise in the chilly morning air. It briefly occurred to Draco that he had not noticed them before. He was equally detached and involved in this series of events that made up the fight. War is strange. How can I be so far removed from something so atrocious sitting at my feet? How did I run across the dead without a second thought?

Draco ran back to his best friend and the girl, avoiding a few fallen schoolmates, to see what or whom they had tripped over. Daphne Greengrass, Astoria's older sister, lay face up, eyes wide, staring at nothing. Astoria's already petite frame seemed to shrink even smaller as she crumbled in grief to cover her sister's cold body with her own, willing her to breathe. Daphne would not breathe; she had long since passed. Draco was aware they would be joining her soon if they did not get out of the middle of the exposed field to some kind of cover. He grabbed the blonde firmly by the upper arms, and attempted to haul her sobbing form away. Astoria was wrought with despair, and clutched her sister's face and hair tightly. Theo unclenched each of her fingers, one by one, and Draco scooped her legs into his arms to carry her away, barely missing the club of a giant as it came barreling towards them through the air.

They ran towards the Herbology greenhouses until their muscles ached and their chests burned. As they neared the buildings, the group began to slow, taking a moment to catch their breaths. They needed to regain their composure if they were to get out of this alive. Astoria slid out of Draco's fatiguing arms in a heap, still in sight of anyone who remained on the grounds. She began to rock back and forth, with her arms holding her legs close to her chest, and eyes wide with shock, tears pouring heavily from them; she made no move to wipe them away.

"Shhhh, do you hear that?" Draco threw his arm out, immediately halting the other two as they strained their ears for any sound.

Theo bent down and scooped up Astoria with one arm supporting her knees and the other her back, and they quietly approached the shadows of the building closest to them.

From the edge of the Compost Shed, they could hear a dark, gravelly voice speak, "Oh, this one is so pretty. She reminds me of someone though, the dark hair and upturned nose."

"Don't fucking touch me, you piece of shit!" the girl spat out.

"That's Pansy," Blaise unnecessarily whispered into Draco's ear.

They listened as a new voice spoke. "That's because she is Parkinson's daughter."

"Oh, what fun you will be then. I expect I will not be the only one to enjoy teaching you a thing or two about what it takes for slags like you to serve the Dark Lord. What your precious daddy doesn't know, he can't stop. Incarcerous!"

They stood and listened as Pansy's voice became strangled. She couldn't speak due to the ropes that now were holding her captive, but she was trying like hell.

"We have to do something!" Astoria urged, the panic gone, a new light in her eyes as she wiggled for Theo to set her down.

"But what?" Draco asked, anxiety clear in his voice.

Theo stepped forward and grabbed Draco's upper arms in both his hands. "When I step out, I will blast him backwards. You cast a shield around me, and then I will take the other one down."

Draco looked back at Theo, and shook his head. "Theo, I don't even have a wand, and you don't how many there are. What if you hit Pansy?"

"Trust me, mate," Theo said, pulling an unknown wand from his pocket and shoving it at Draco's chest. "We don't really have any other choices at this point."

Theo stepped from the shadows before Draco could even argue or think of whose wand he now felt tingling in his palm. He heard Theo shout, "Petrificus Totalus," not knowing if the spell made contact or not. They watched as Theo ducked, barely missing a purple light aimed right where he had been, and Draco wasted no time in casting a Shield Charm around him. A new curse rebounded towards the caster of the purple spell. Theo aimed his wand and cast a spell that must have taken the remaining man down, because he looked at the three in the shadows and declared, "Geez Draco, you could've been a bit quicker with that Shield Charm. It's a wonder they didn't choose me for the Quidditch team."

Draco rolled his eyes, while Blaise tore off around the edge of the shed to get to Pansy.

"What do we do now?" Draco turned to Theo.

"Let's just get into the shadows of the Forest and Apparate somewhere. The wards are down, we can leave."

"But what about the girls?" Draco asked.

"What do you mean, 'what about the girls'? Draco, we can't leave them. Astoria is hurt, and Pansy was almost raped. They come with us."

Draco looked like he was about to argue, but there was no time as their conversation was blown apart by an intensely hot fire. They immediately ran the remaining distance to the Forest. Hidden from view in the treeline, they watched the ignited Greenhouse disintegrate just before it exploded.

"Just go to the hills south of the Manor where we used to fly. GO NOW!" Draco screamed over the sound of the explosion. He watched as Theo Disapparated with Astoria, and Blaise with Pansy. Before raising his borrowed wand, he glanced back towards the castle; he was met with the haunting image of Hogwarts ablaze.


	2. Chapter 2

Hermione didn't register the trauma that surrounded her. Her only thoughts were of the still warm body beneath her. She willed the chest to lift against her face, the air to move in and out, and yearned to hear a heartbeat under her ear. She didn't feel the stone floor as it reverberated with hundreds of feet stomping around her. She couldn't hear the shouting of pain and anguish, nor did she process the battle sounds happening close to her. Her only awareness was of the black tousled hair gripped in her fingers and the thundering woosh-woosh of the blood in her ears as her heart beat furiously in her chest, panic overtaking her physical body with what her mind refused to admit.

She did not notice as someone pulled her from Harry.

"Hermione, c'mon," a soft voice said.

"Hermione, we need to get out of here," the voice said again, this time putting a firm hand on her upper back.

"HERMIONE!"

She looked up into the face that had called out her name to be met with the indigo-blue eyes of her best friend, Ron. Blood oozing from a cut above his brow, and a swollen lip only enhanced the agonizing look of pain on his face.

"Ron, you're hurt," she muttered in a factual, studious tone while she reached into her purple beaded bag to Summon the Dittany she always had on hand.

"I - I can't - do you have my wand? I need to get the Dittany for your cut. It will swell soon if we do not treat it. I can't seem to Summon it."

Ron stared at her in disbelief as he tried to formulate some kind of plan to pull Hermione back to her wits. A war was happening all around them, and they were sitting ducks in a sea of Dark Curses while she looked to treat a scrape that he hadn't even noticed.

"Hermione, stop. I'm fine. Listen, we have to go…" he choked out the words as tears threatened to spill over the edge of his lashes. "We can't stay here."

Ron grabbed Hermione's face in his hands, forcing her eyes to make contact with his own, and after a few beats he saw the vacant glaze fall away to be replaced with a jolt of clarity.

"Ron, he's dead," she whispered as she threw her arms around his neck and held on to him tightly. She didn't know if he could hear her over the clamor surrounding them, but saw that he understood by the way he briefly cast his eyes to the floor where Harry lay.

Tugging on her arms a bit, he loosened her hold and met her eyes replying, "I know, but it's not safe here. We have to get out."

"We can't leave Harry! I will not just leave him here to be trampled over," she ground out, tearing her arms from him forcefully, anger flooding her aching soul that he would even think to leave their best friend behind.

He looked at her nervously, but a determined flash crossed his features and he grabbed her hard on the upper arms. "Hermione, look at me." She looked away from his face, and he shook her firmly as he forced the truth from his lips. "Harry is dead! He's dead, dammit! The Death Eaters are taking control. We. Have. To. Get. Out!"

Hermione's eyes glazed over once again as she looked desperately around for answers; the scene unfolded itself in a matter of a few blinks. The Great Hall could hardly be called great anymore. The stone walls were cracked and enormous gouges caused the structure to shake, ready to cave. The giant wooden beams above were splintered and began to split under the immense load. Glass rained from above showering jagged, glittering diamonds as the windows were shattered by the dragons and thestrals joining the fight, defending the side of the Light. Colors danced all around them as various hexes and curses were being thrown randomly from the Death Eaters that now out numbered them. She was swiftly pulled from her examination of the the building surrounding her with the realization she had yet to acknowledge; Harry was dead, and they needed to escape before dying themselves.

"Crucio!" The red light hit Ron directly in the chest, and she watched as his eyes slammed shut, his body falling back rigid with the pain of the curse.

The putrid smell of death hung heavy in the air, and all too quickly, Hermione picked up the broken bits of her soul and found herself face to face with the man controlling the torture curse on Ron. She shouted, "Stupefy!" and the cobalt colored light hit its mark - the chest of Canis Crabbe and he collapsed, stunned.

"RON! Are you ok?" Hermione asked quickly, falling to her knees as she brushed his hair away from his face, leaving her palm to rest against his cheek. She knew the pain of that curse, and luckily he was only under it for a matter of seconds. He nodded weakly, and she pulled him limping towards the Entrance Hall eager to get out from what seemed to be the demise of Hogwarts, neither noticing the broken form of the late Lord Voldemort only feet from The Chosen One.

It seemed as though everyone realized the necessity of getting out of Hogwarts. The house point hourglasses were shattered, making the stone floor dazzle in emeralds, sapphires, rubies, and yellow diamonds. Suits of armor were ripped apart and scattered everywhere, their once grand presence nothing more than a broken shell. Ghosts fled through walls and back again not sure where to go, or what to do. Fires burned in random corridors, spreading through the halls and igniting portraits as their inhabitants screamed, fleeing to the next frame only to be consumed. Students, Professors, and Death Eaters alike were all fleeing to the sloping lawns from the doors of the school.

Once outside, the retreating forms scattered into whatever sanctity they could find while Death Eaters continued their fight and capture of anyone within sight. Hermione followed Ron at a slowed pace seeking what shelter they could find behind statues, garden walls, and other littered remains of battle. Both held their wands firmly, taking care to guard each other's backs.

Hermione pulled Ron down, ducking behind a collapsed archway from the courtyard to catch her breath. "We need a plan, Ron."

She watched him take his eyes away from the search for danger and meet her face. The sounds around them were deafening, the tainted smell of fear overwhelmed her senses, but when he slowly lifted his hand and cupped her face, she leaned into his palm and closed her eyes. In this moment, this moment alone, he was here to protect her - and even more - comfort her. She felt his other hand grab her face, palm slightly calloused, and his lips touched her temple. She pulled back to meet his eyes, and pressed her forehead against his, love pouring from one soul to the other as they filled each other with courage, and the will to continue this fight.

The moment ended as quickly as it began as a Death Eater came barreling into their hiding spot, barely missing the pair as his curse landed next to them, creating stone bits to explode everywhere. Ron was fast, and in the midst of the explosion he cast a spell that halted the Death Eater in his tracks. He grabbed Hermione's hand, hauling her to her feet as they sprinted down the only open path, towards the Black Lake.

From a distance they could see the morning light reflecting on the usually calm surface of the lake. As they approached, the lake was transformed into a pool of what seemed to be tidal waves of oil. The surge crashed over the banks leaving displaced grindylows and merfolk scrambling to get back into the water. The Giant Squid was in the middle of the lake, long tentacles flailing about and throwing water everywhere, leaving an inky wake in its path. Most people were fleeing from the hurricane of water, and they followed the scattering crowd in the opposite direction.

"Hermione, just stay close to me. We have to find the others, and get out of here! Head to the Willow. Maybe we can hide out in the tunnel?"

Her breath already labored, she could not argue as she followed him. As they rounded the bend, said tree was suddenly alight with enormous dancing flames. Hermione stared at the brightness, eyes open wide in shock as the thrashing fiery limbs of the tree made a haunting glow upon the landscape. They could see bodies scattered everywhere; not just humans, but house-elves, centaurs, hippogriffs, and even a giant. Hermione felt her hand cover her mouth as her breath was roughly ripped from her lungs. Ron gripped her other hand, grinding her bones together as he tried to keep his own fear from showing.

A guttural growl interrupted their stupor of utter terror, and it was followed by a scream that sounded all too familiar. Ron took off in pursuit of the scream, and Hermione followed right behind him. Rounding the corner they were met with Fenrir Greyback, the werewolf. He was worse off than most, blood seeping from under his matted hair, but his eyes still held a manic pleasure as he gripped Katie Bell by her hair pulling her head back as he whispered something into her ear. He had his other hand over her mouth, preventing her from screaming further. She thrashed and clawed urgently in an attempt to loosen his hold.

"Hey, let go of her!" Ron shouted.

The werewolf turned his head to glare at where Ron and Hermione stood. Hermione raised her wand as he took a step towards the duo, dragging Katie behind him, her hair still grasped in his fist. He stopped abruptly, eyes widening and then looked down at his feet. He let Katie go in surprise as he began to kick and hop in an almost perfect routine of the Samba.

"Really, little brother? You thought you could just tell him to let Katie go?" George stepped from the shadows, heading swiftly to Katie as Greyback continued to dance his way towards the other two.

"Honestly, George Weasley, you're the only person I know who would attempt to befuddle a Werewolf with a Dancing Feet Spell!" Hermione chided while she quickly Stunned the dancing man and ran to help George with an obviously shaken Katie. She had fallen to the ground and was weakly smacking George's hand away from her as he held out a cream colored sweet.

"George! What in the name of Merlin are you giving to her?" Hermione demanded.

"Relax, Hermione," George reassured soberly, pushing the sweet towards Katie again. "It's an anxiety calming sweet. It won't hurt her, but it will help her come out of her shock."

Hermione watched as Katie chewed the sweet and swallowed, her swollen irises began to shrink and her hands stopped trembling. Katie looked to George as a single tear slid past her lashes.

Ron approached them and bent to meet Katie's face before gently, but firmly saying, "Katie, can you move? It's not safe here."

At Katie's nod, George grabbed her arm and flung it around his shoulders following Ron as he rounded the edge of the shadows. Hermione took up the rear, her head swiveling around seeking out an ambush. It wasn't until they came to the spot where the embers of what used to be Hagrid's hut burned, that it became all too clear they were in very big trouble. Voices surrounded them from all angles, some screaming in pain while others screamed out curses. Ron threw his arm out halting their progress, asking, "Can't we just Disapparate?"

"Ron," Hermione answered exasperated, "Hogwarts is protected by numerous ancient spells and incantations, such as the Anti-Disapparition Jinx; of course we can't just Disapparate."

"Hermione! Look around us!" Ron gestured with his arms wide. "Hogwarts is in bloody ruins. My guess, the only magic left here is Dark Magic."

"Well, I'm not going to be the one to try and splinch myself." Hermione retorted, crossing her arms over her chest, silently daring him to try himself.

"I hate to interrupt one of your many arguments, but I think we have some trouble headed this way," George said, pointing behind Hermione.

They all turned to watch as a half a dozen black figures walked swiftly towards their group. The band of hooded figures spread out, beginning to stalk their prey the way a pack of wolves hunts sheep. Without discussing, the four turned their backs to each other creating a circle, wands held out ready to strike. They edged their way together, away from the men outnumbering them as quickly as they could. As soon as the men were close enough, hexes began to fly; it was a blur as curses were launched at them. Hermione took out the Death Eater closest to her, and could hear George behind her cast a Shield Charm as a orange light blasted off of it and back at the offending man. Two men down, they were evenly matched now, but they were too powerful. These men were skilled at fighting, and knew Dark Curses most wizards and witches wouldn't dream of knowing - let alone using. The four continued to fight back as they were being pushed towards the gates of the school.

They used the strongest and deadliest curses they knew. This was not the time for Stupefy, as effective a tactic as it had been in the past. This was their lives, and they were barely school children anymore. Avada Kedavra left the lips of each of the four D.A. members on multiple occasions during the scuffle, and not one paused to notice if it had been their spell to cause the death.

They began to run in earnest now, turning their wands behind them when they could, taking out two more men. Hermione could see the gates beyond them, and other figures just past them. She slowed just a fraction, wondering if the people on the other side of the gate were friend or foe. Caught off guard, she felt the white light of a Stinging Hex hit her leg and she sprawled to the ground unable to move as the burning pain spread up her thigh. She raised her wand as the Death Eater advanced on her, ready to strike as a green flash headed in her direction. She closed her eyes, knowing she'd never open them again as she listened to the agonizing voice of Ron screaming her name.

She was sure she would be dead, but it seemed the curse must have missed. She opened her eyes at the feel of long fingers encircling her forearm. The face she was met with was all wrong. He had the signature Weasley red hair and freckles over the bridge of his nose, but the eyes - they were brown. This was not her Ron. This must be George, she concluded as she noticed his missing ear. He grabbed her, pulling her to her feet, and they ran. She saw Katie fifteen yards ahead, sprinting, but where was Ron? She turned her head over her shoulder to see the form of a redheaded man laying face up where she had previously been. A quiet whimper escaped her lips, and silent tears fell down her face.

George never left her side, even though her stride was so much smaller, and she was slower due to the Stinging Hex that still burned. He gripped her hand, pulling her towards the gates as more people and creatures ran beside them. She noticed a wave of shimmer at the gates, and recognized a shield, but what kind? What was it? Her heart jumped as Katie ran through the barrier like she was crossing Platform 9 ¾. She was quickly followed by a figure that was within inches of being caught by a Death Eater. The assailant hit the barrier, expecting to follow his victim, but was thrown thirty yards away, coming to a heap on the ground. This was the work of the Light; they were there and had somehow created a safety for those who needed it. They had almost reached the end, and as they were only feet away from the gates, Hermione looked over her shoulder to see her home burn to the ground, both her best friends gone with it.


	3. Chapter 3

Landing on the hilltop south of Malfoy Manor, Draco took in the grim stretch below him. The drive was bleak, the lush gardens now dead, the fountain cracked and dry, and the house, once majestic and opulent, reduced to a depressing grey washed-out stone building. It seems whatever magic surrounded the house had crumbled in the wake of Voldemort's death, the façade he had created to boast of his greatness gone with it, leaving the true building behind. The Manor was surrounded in darkness, even though the early morning light was quickly overtaking the dawn. Draco shivered. He had no desire to spend any length of time in that shell of a home any longer, but they needed supplies, and he desperately wanted news of his mother.

"Not quite the same house I remember. What the fuck happened to it?" Theo questioned, lowering Astoria to the ground.

"Who the fuck knows. I am sure the Dark Lord has had it spelled to look in far less disrepair than what it truly has been. My father was barely surviving our house guest's stay, and I doubt he has kept up with the actual running of the place." Draco sneered as he said the words 'house guest'. The madman who took over their Manor was little more than an imprisoner, holding his parents hostage in his own twisted game of loyalty.

"Malfoy, what's your plan? I mean, you do have a plan, right?" Blaise demanded pacing back and forth, looking at the decrepit manor with suspicion and anxiousness.

"I'm going to go down to the Manor and take a look around." At Theo's vehement argument, Draco continued with a more determined voice, "I'm not sure if the Blood Wards are still in place, but the Dark Lord was very protective of the property, and it's more than likely he set up traps for people who aren't welcome."

"Draco, you're not welcome there now. If any of the Death Eaters are there…this is suicide. They'll know you've turned traitor. We should all stick together," Pansy spoke for the first time since arriving on the hilltop, her voice clear but a bit shaky.

"No, I'll do this alone. You guys hang back here. And, for Salazar's sake, try not to get killed while I'm gone!" Draco instructed the group firmly, eyes connecting with Theo and then Blaise, an unspoken conversation occurring between them. These guys were much more reliable and intelligent than his usual lackeys of Crabbe and Goyle, and they could handle pretty much anything if it went to shit in his absence. He could count on them, and his looks to them insisted upon that.

Theo opened his mouth to either dispute the plan or demand to come with him; whichever it was, Draco was not having it. "Theo, don't even try. We don't have time to argue. I will be back in ten minutes." He gave them all a curt nod before Disapparating into the Drawing Room.

After the Dark Lord took up residence in Draco's childhood home, he changed several things about the structure of the wards, including preventing Apparition except into and out of the Drawing Room. This was just another piece of evidence in the growing list of paranoid, controlling, and obsessive restrictions put in place by Voldemort to govern his followers. The self-proclaimed 'Most Powerful Wizard' of all time was really a little shithouse that did not even trust the men in his inner circle to move about freely in their center of operations.

The house seemed eerily quiet compared to the hustle and bustle that usually echoed down the long hallways. With the Manor being the Dark Lord's headquarters for quite some time, the walls were accustomed to a certain level of screaming, torment, and anguish amongst the frivolity of grand parties and illustrious gatherings. It was a juxtaposition for sure, but Draco did not have time to dwell on it now. He was most concerned with gathering supplies and getting the hell out, and so, he began moving down the hall towards the main staircase.

"Draco?" a hushed, but fierce voice called from the side of his head. Draco jumped, stopping in his tracks and nearly falling over, his heartbeat coming to a grinding halt in his chest as his lungs expelled all of the air inside them forcefully. He spun swiftly in his place as he aimed the already lifted wand to the direction the voice had come from. The magical portrait of Abraxas Malfoy stared back at his grandson, startled. 

"Fucking shit Abraxas. I nearly put a hole through your head. What the hell are you doing?" Draco demanded of his late grandfather's portrait while he collected his breathing and tamed his wildly beating heart.

"Put that wand away, boy! Is that really an appropriate way to address your grandfather?" he sneered disdainfully, clearly offended by Draco's informal use of his given name and the foul language surrounding it.

Taking another moment to steady his nerves, Draco quipped, "You're dead. I don't have any obligation of respect to you anymore." His grandfather had been vile, and after the last few years he had had, Draco could not muster the energy to bow and scrape to the Malfoy patriarch. In any case, this was a war, and all of the pretenses of the antiquated pureblood etiquette would just be fuel for the fire; it was something he had no interest in participating in any longer.

The slack jawed look of disgust and shock on the old portrait's face was incredibly satisfying. Draco turned to ignore his now ranting ancestor, but Abraxas continued on, "You can be sure sure your father will hear about this," the portrait spat back in anger, "but for now, I must know, what has happened at Hogwarts? The portraits are talking, they say it's burned to the ground, in ruins. Is it? Well is it, boy?"

Draco rolled his eyes, not caring to waste another minute on informing a portrait, ancestor or not, of the demise of the world. He cast a non-verbal  _ Silencio _ to quiet the long winded questions being fired from the man. The chance to defy his grandfather was invigorating, and Draco had a renewed sense of purpose in the exchange.

Taking a deep breath, he carefully made his way up the large staircase, advancing silently and listening intently. In the adrenaline of moving undetected, he forgot he could cast his modified  _ Homenum Revelio _ , the Human-Presence-Revealing Spell. Draco smiled to himself for his cleverness in spite of the situation at hand; he was exceptionally talented in charms and had personally altered the traditional spell to include creatures in his detection. At the top of the stairs, he slid flat along the wall of a darkened alcove and spoke, " _ Viate Revelio. _ " A sort of hologram popped out of his wand, and the perfect layout of Malfoy Manor appeared before him in shimmering blue lines. He saw the flickering orange dots indicating several house elves moving around in the kitchens, no doubt preparing the celebratory feast that would never occur. Thankfully, only one green dot showed - in the place he stood -signaling there were no other humans in the house at this time aside from himself. Well, that's a relief, he breathed deeply, feeling some of the tension in his shoulders melt a smidgen.

As he made his way down the twisting, dark corridors, Draco pondered at how easily this wand responded to him, and was taken aback by the lack of resistance to the complicated spell. Viate Revelio was intricate and required quite a bit of magic to ensure accuracy, and since the wand was not his own, but one that Theo snatched from some dead body, it was a wonder he was even successful at all. He shivered slightly at the still too real images that flashed in front of him at the thought of the battle. Shaking his head in an attempt to clear it, he looked down at the wand fisted in his right hand. He recognized it was made of hawthorne, just like his original wand, and was of similar length. He suspected the core was different since it did not feel perfect, however there seemed to be a familiar similarity to how the magic felt.  _ I wonder whose wand this really is, and if it is truly loyal to me? _

Being virtually alone in the house, Draco picked up his pace, jogging down the hallway to the east wing, and ducked into his bedroom. Once inside, he turned and shut the door, sliding down the six panel frame to his rear, willing his heart to slow from the racing effort of exertion and adrenaline. He hung his head and attempted to control his breathing as he began to take notice of his appearance. His always immaculate robes were ripped, and the hems singed. He smelled of blood, dirt, and musky fear. Pulling himself up before the soreness in his muscles set in, he swiftly paced to the sink in his private bathroom. Holding onto the edge of the porcelain, his knuckles turned white with the strength of this grip. Draco was haunted by the image he saw as his own reflection stared back. His normally slicked back hair was tangled, dust clinging to the strands, causing it to be matted in places. His face was paler than usual, but the splatters of blood across his cheek, which belonged to anyone but him, coloured them. The slate darkness of his pupils spoke to the horrors that played across his lids with each blink. The horrors he desperately wanted to ignore. Determined to halt whatever breakdown was bubbling under the surface of his cracked and bloodied body, he submerged his head in the cold water of the basin.

Dragging a hand down his face, he cast a wandless Drying Spell and continued back into his bedroom. This was not the time to fall apart, and he needed to hurry back to the group. 

Draco headed immediately to the secure stash of galleons hidden in the complicated desk drawer compartment. It required several Protective Enchantments to be reversed, and a drop of his own blood to gain entry into the desk. After reciting the incantations he was awarded with the intricate unfolding of many drawers within drawers as the dark cherry secretary expanded to reveal hundreds of small compartments. He grabbed a napsack from his closet that was previously enchanted with both Weightless and Undetectable Extension Charms, something he saw the infuriating Granger girl do to her school bag when she filled it with a library's worth of tomes and was unaware anyone was watching. At the time, he was annoyed with the cleverness of the witch, and was invariably impressed with how she thought of something so brilliant and useful, though he would never admit it. She was clearly the only reason Potter and Weasel made it out of any of their near-death-experiences alive.  _ I suppose it's a moot point now though, with Potty being dead and all. _

Draco moved back to the desk, throwing several pouches of Muggle notes and wizard galleons into his satchel, probably a few thousand pounds worth. He was worried they would not have access to their vaults after the initial panic died down, and luckily he kept a nice stash of the extras he withdrew at random times in case his father was being uncharitable with the vault keys. How such thoughts of clarity occurred to him at a time like this, he did not know, but he was grateful he seemed to have a sense of purpose about him at this moment. His survival would depend upon him being able to make sound decisions. He also had the forethought to toss in several shelves worth of books, parchment, quills, and ink, his potions kit, and clothes. A second later he was coming back out of the bathroom having tossed in soap and toothbrushes, thinking it necessary to have the grime and gore washed from his skin. After a quick overview of the room, he once again approached the desk and picked up a small locking, ebony box with walnut and hawthorne inlay which his mother gave to him - his only personal memento, but important nonetheless. Who knew how long it would be before he could return here, or if the Manor would still be standing when he did?

As he was shutting his bedroom door and preparing to leave, he heard a noise coming from the other end of the hall. He stopped, pressing himself flush with the doorframe as if he could blend into the wall.

" _ Viate Revelio _ ," he whispered, revealing a single person in the Master Suite. Unsure of his next steps, Draco took a moment to weigh his options. The Master Suite was in the opposite direction of the Drawing Room; his exit. It could be a trap to lure him, or anyone else in the house, into a duel. But more than likely, it was his mother or father's return to the Manor. The decision seemingly being made for him, Draco's feet carried him quickly but silently down the long hallway to his parent's master bedrooms. He knew every creaky floorboard by muscle memory and managed to arrive at his chosen destination without a single signal of his approach. Sad as it was to admit, spying for Lord Voldemort had paid off in some areas, and his stealth was no exception. He entered the main sitting room of the master suite through the open door. In front of him was a vacant seating area, to the left a dressing room and bathroom, and to the right the sleeping chambers. He headed for the door he knew to be his mother's and found it closed - a good sign. Hoping it was her in there, he pressed his ear to the solid oak and listened intently; he could hear the click-clack shuffle of his mother's heels upon the oak floors. According to the Presence-Revealing-Spell he cast earlier, she was intended to be alone. He took a deep breath and steeled his courage, pushing the door open on the exhale.

Wide blue eyes, the colour of a summer's sky, landed on his face, and his mother's expression softened immediately. Relief flooded Draco's being as his heart sped up at the vision of his mother standing before him, very much alive.

"Draco, you're safe," Narcissa Malfoy breathed out in utter relief at the sight of her mostly unscathed son.

Closing the gap between the two, Draco walked towards the woman taking in her still pristine appearance. Her hair was pulled back in a knot, and while her robes were wrinkled, as if she'd been running, they were not torn. 

"Mother, are you alright? Are you hurt? Where is Father?"

"Fine. I am as fine as to be expected. I suspect your father is still at Hogwarts. Is it true what the portraits are saying?" At Draco's nod, she continued with a vacant expression clouding her eyes, "I left right after the snake… I couldn't find you, so I came here in hopes that you would be here."

"Mother, it's not safe for you here. The Death Eaters will be returning any minute now. All hell fucking broke loose. The Dark Lord is dead. Potter is dead. It's going to be a nightmare."

Narcissa responded in the most motherly tone she could muster, "I know, I know. Don't worry about all of that. Your father will take care of us, like always. It is you we have to concern ourselves with!" She sounded almost automated as if she had no idea of the surrounding circumstances, and maybe she didn't. Lucius did always attempt to keep her out of the line of fire, and it seemed as if being a Death Eater's wife came with the special privilege of innocence, feigned as it may be. Narcissa played the part of dutiful wife perfectly, and most of the time it appeared she was completely ignorant of, and unaffected by, his father's dealings. Though she was at the Castle early that morning, Narcissa was never one to get involved in a duel if she could avoid it; as skilled of a duelist as she was, it was not her style. And she did leave before watching Hogwarts crumble to heap of ash, so the severity of their current circumstances might not have sunken in completely.

No matter. This was not the time for blindness, and Draco would not coddle her like his father had the nasty habit of doing. "Mother, I don't know what you're talking about," he urged, moving to take her hand and physically bring her along with him if that is what she required. "We have to go!"

She turned her body from him a degree, eyes devoid of emotion, and face expressionless. The hand he had reached to take moved itself out of range, and her palm rested, instead, on a necklace hanging loosely near her heart. Draco started feeling more alarmed by his mother's inexpression and insisted, "You have to come with me! I'm trying to tell you, it's not safe."

"Draco, dear, I must stay here by your father's side. I don't know his fate, but I am bound to him, and I will need to wait for him." As Narcissa spoke she took a thin gold chain off of her neck and slid a ring from her third finger on her right hand over it before securing the clasp. Her movements were graceful and practiced, but the slight quiver in her wrist betrayed the fear she must have been feeling, however carefully she tried to mask it. She grabbed Draco's hand in her own, and he palmed the chain automatically. "Please, hurry. This ring has a Location Charm on it. I will find you."

_ What the ever living fuck is happening right now?  _ Draco wondered in disbelief as he stared at his mother's impassive face; she really was good at guarding her true thoughts. If she had any fear, she wasn't giving much away. The panic began to return; the adrenaline of the battle beginning to wind down, and the bile in his stomach rising up.

Starting to feel quite angry at his mother's naive insistence, he raised his voice an octave, the timbre deepening with his ire, "This isn't the time to be sacrificing for me." His mother's face flashed briefly with shock or bewilderment, Draco could not be sure which, so he softened his volume and persisted. 

"I know you want to protect me, and that is what this is about. But I can not leave you behind to whatever fate the Death Eaters decide for you. I will not."

"Draco, hear me quite plainly," she addressed him firmly as her stance straightened, and the vacancy began to fall away. Her expressionless face altered to one of conviction. She looked like a mighty lioness, strong and fierce, determination shining across her darkened eyes. Draco supposed he was the cub in this analogy, quivering with fear and lost without his mother by his side.

"This is not your decision to make," she spoke, maintaining the lioness posture and determined presence. "I know exactly the risk that I am taking in staying behind here. Your life is of the utmost importance to me, and it is the only reason I still breathe."

Draco gasped at the implication and turned his head to look away from her. His mother had always struggled with bouts of depression, but he had never heard her refer to her suicide attempts out loud. Once when he was very young, he overheard her talking to a Home-Healer as she detailed the struggles she had faced before his birth that had stopped just after he was born. Since that day, Draco had carried the heavy burden of guilt for his mother and her unhappiness; always painfully aware that he remained the reason she was shackled to a life she did not want to live. The ever present weight continued to ache to his very bones.

Wrought with grief, Draco's shoulders sank, head dipping low in contrition. His eyes fixed themselves on a knot in the wooden floor board, refusing to meet the pale blue gaze of his mother for fear of completely losing his composure. The words escaped in one whispered breath, "Nevermeantforyoutohurt."

She reached for his hand once more and rubbed a thumb along his wrist, beckoning him to look up at her. The tone of her voice was every bit the mother he grew up with - soft, loving, kind. "You, my dear son, could never be the reason I hurt. You are, in fact, the reason I have a tremendous amount of joy." 

She added a bit more firmly with a squeeze of her palm against his, "...A joy that will die if any harm comes to you."

He lifted his eyes through his lashes and watched as her softened gaze steeled itself again, the cool, collected, and in control Narcissa replacing the Mother he loved so fondly. 

Narcissa spoke again, "I cannot emphasise it any clearer. I, more than anyone else, understand what risk there is with the Dark Lord dead. You are in grave danger, and you need to hide."

She flashed him a challenging gaze, and he swallowed his rebuttal. Draco did not dare argue with her on this.

"Now, you will go, and I will stay. I will do my best to help you when I can, and I will find you by the ring. Keep it with you always," she instructed him clearly and strongly, a hint of desperation in her blue irises. And though he felt like he was a small boy who had just been scolded by his nanny, he appreciated the love in the tone of her rebuke.

"Mother, I…" Draco trailed off, the bile catching in his throat again.

"... love you too, my dear son," she finished the words for him, placing her soft palm on his cheek. "Now, go. I will find you when it's safe," she reassured him once again.

Narcissa slid her hand from his face to grip his biceps in each of her trembling hands and kissed his cheek. His mother was not often one for displays of affection, but she had always given him just enough to know she truly loved him in the way a mother should. He reached out and squeezed her hard, maybe too hard, in a hug that felt a bit more natural than it should have done considering the few times they had encountered one another in this way. It was not a goodbye embrace, but a see-you-later, and he hoped she knew the difference. Not a minute later, Narcissa Malfoy was turning her son's shoulders and pressing on him gently in the middle of his two sharp shoulder blades to encourage him out the door. He turned to look back before leaving the room to meet her eyes again. Her face was pulled taut in a grimace and she was holding her breath. Her eyes pooled with sadness and maybe even regret. The image of his mother was replaced with the intricate carvings in the heavy oak door, leaving him once again alone. His feet trudged as though through treacle as he begrudgingly made his way to the Entrance Hall.

On his way out, he thought to snag his cloak and a few extras for the others from the Entry Hall cupboard.  _ It's a shame this wardrobe doesn't lead to some magical place we could escape to. Wouldn't that be wild?  _ Shaking the ridiculous thought away, he noticed his Firebolt propped up in the corner behind the cloaks and grabbed that too.

He exited through the grand front door of the Manor and promptly vomited his whole stomach's contents - which was not much - and then some. He heaved violently as the bile finally emptied itself from him in anguished relief. While he gagged and tried to catch his breath, the diamond paned windows of the decrepit manor reflected his battered appearance as a result of the retching. A few stray tears marked his cheeks, and burst blood vessels appeared under his sunken eyes. His breath now reeked of the traitorous bile that exposed his absolute fear for his life and the life of the only other person he has ever truly loved; the person he just walked away from. Leaving the Manor and abandoning his mother was the hardest thing he had done that day.

Without the focus or magical strength to safely Apparate, he hiked sluggishly back to the hilltop, the risk of flying on his recently acquired broom too treacherous - that would have to be saved for emergencies only. When he finally arrived, the quartet were exactly where he left them. Pansy was leaning with her back against Blaise's torso where he sat against a tree, his fingers tracing lines up her arms and twirling themselves absentmindedly in her raven hair. He looked off to the left with a pained expression on his face and vacant eyes, no doubt reliving the delightful morning they had all just experienced. Pansy was chewing on her finger tips, the usually perfectly manicured nails already worn down to the quick, cuticles bleeding from her gnawing. The worn path in the tall grass and the green stains on his trainers were evidence of Blaise's perpetual pacing, something Pansy reprimanded him for on a regular basis. Their false nonchalance was clearly being camouflaged in this out of place embrace. The anxiety was written all over them.

Theo was whittling stray branches with his wand into makeshift shanks while scowling nastily. Draco knew to avoid him based on the face alone; whatever Theo was dealing with wouldn't be resolved right now. Astoria was laying face up in grass, legs outstretched and one ankle resting upon Blaise's folded jumper, her hands delicately draped over her stomach. She was staring at the now cerulean sky as hot tears silently poured from her eyes - the only true indication among the four that anything amiss had happened that morning.

Draco sank into the dew covered earth near Astoria and flopped onto his back, slipping the gold chain into his trouser pocket and taking a few moments to calm his ragged breathing. He thought of some of the things he had witnessed over the past few hours, and he supposed they did not really stack up to the horrors they had all faced this past year. Yes, this battle was bloody and gruesome and terrible, and many, many people died. It was evil incarnate, and they were all victims in one way or another.

_ But what is one more battle when we have been living at a castle run by Death Eaters and torturing each other with the Cruciatus Curse every day? I guess I can't blame them for fucking feeling numb to all of it at this point. Survive. We are all just surviving. _

Draco noticed his lungs fill at a more human pace and shifted his thoughts to the incessant question clawing in the back of his mind,  _ Where the hell do we go from here? _

He left his musings, and frankly emotions, behind as he slid into the role given to him by their group: the leader. He didn't ask for it, no one ever voted on it, and yet here it was; they all expected him to lead. So, he rolled over onto his side and looked at the young face of the blonde beside him. "Astoria, are you still hurt?"

"Only my ankle," she breathed out through sobs, "and maybe my ribs... I think I took a Stunner to the chest. I'm not sure."

Draco looked back towards the couple behind him. "Pansy, I know you secretly helped Longbottom with healing people after the Carrows worked a number on them," he accused the girl, tossing an incredulous glance in her direction. "Why are you just sitting there?" he barked. "Fucking help her!"

Pansy's face dropped with the shock of her secret being found out, but it was quickly replaced with the carefully collected and frigid guise she often wore. She left her seat against Blaise to crouch beside Astoria's feet. It was clear the ankle had been broken badly. "Nott, make a splint from those branches."

Theo, who was now looking more concerned than murderous, hurriedly Transfigured a few of the dull shanks into a wider, flat splint which Pansy carefully set behind the injured girl's heel.

"This shouldn't hurt too much.” Pansy attempted to pacify the blonde whose eyes were wide as saucers and filled with uncertainty. She continued on with a side look at Draco, "If we had the  _ proper potions _ , then it could be mended in a night. As it stands, I can't do anything without pain relief. Draco, give her a Pain Potion and your hand to squeeze."

Draco sat up, balking at the girl, "Parkinson, you must be taking the piss."

"No, the fuck I'm not. Give her the potion and hold her damn hand. You owe me," she retorted, venom in her voice.

With a dramatic huff and eyeroll, Draco murmured under his breath, "Yes, mother."

Rummaging in his bag, he removed the small Field Potions Kit that Severus Snape had taught him to have prepared at all times. It was a collection of home-brewed elixirs, mostly to treat illnesses, but he did have some useful potions for injuries as well. Addressing Astoria, and resolutely ignoring Pansy, he offered, "Here, take this. It's my last one, but we need you to be able to move, and when we get settled I can brew some more." Draco extended an uncorked phial of deep purple liquid, and she swallowed it in one gulp. She handed the phial back to Draco, entwining her fingers with his, and closed her eyes shut against the oncoming pain. He knew this particular potion would also have a sedating effect, so they would need to move quickly to find a place to sleep for the night.

"Squeeze his hand till it breaks," Pansy added with a smirk at Astoria before whispering the incantation, " _ Ferula _ ." Everyone watched as bandages snaked themselves out of Pansy's wand to wrap around Astoria's ankle, securing the Transfigured splint. She grimaced as the pressure from the cotton bandages wound themselves around the tender and swollen flesh. A few whimpers she tried to hold back fell from her mouth, and grateful fingers dug into Draco's palm.

"Now, this will still need some healing since I don't know any spells for a break this large. And you'll need to stay off of it-" Draco's incredulous snort interrupted her, and she tossed a warning glance in his direction, "-but at least it has a chance to set properly in the splint." Pansy addressed Astoria tenderly, the venom in her voice directed earlier to Draco long since dissipated.

"Brilliant, thank you, Pansy," Astoria sighed in relief.

"How is it feeling?" the untrained 'mediwitch' inquired.

"There is a dull ache in my ribs, but the potion has helped. And the pain is almost gone in my ankle."

"I don't want to rush you, but we do need to move someplace less exposed. Are you okay to Apparate once more?" Draco inquired with a gentle firmness, hand still holding hers.

"Yes, if it means I can go to sleep soon, I will do anything." The blonde's eyes were still hollow with sadness and pain, and the never ending stream of tears still covered her cheeks, pooling at the base of her neck.

Draco lifted her once again by the knees into his arms, and said, "Theo, get everyone to the Nott Barn. I don't think I can Apparate more than two of us safely, and you obviously know where it is."

They arrived at the barn situated on the edge of the expansive Nott property in a heap and tangle of limbs. Draco swiftly pushed an arm from his face, Blaise's by the dark colour, and unwound himself from the twist of Astoria's long blonde hair. Apparating when they were this tired did not make for the most graceful of landings, but no one seemed to be worse for wear. 

Draco muttered to Theo as he slid himself from underneath his leg, "Remind me to walk a safe distance away from you next time we Apparate. How did we end up in the same fucking spot?!"

Astoria was nearly asleep as the full effect of the Pain Potion took hold of her already exhausted form. Draco Transfigured a plank of wood into a simple camping bed and guided her steadily to lay down on it, laying a spare cloak on her as a blanket.

This barn had been his and Theo's main escape from the terrors of their childhood. He loathed to spend unnecessary time with his father who was cruel and distant in his early years, and Theo's dad was usually too busy raping and tormenting some poor Muggle to notice their disappearance. In their teens they snuck firewhisky and weed to stash away in the floorboards of the forgotten barn. They had built for themselves a fairly comfortable clubhouse at one point in time, and he was amazed it was still relatively intact.

Once Astoria drifted off to sleep, Draco made his way up to the loft where he found the dusty couches and the remnants of their youth. Theo was propped in an oversized plush chair, leg tossed over the arm comfortably, twiddling one of his wand-whittled shanks.

"I can't wait to put this through the heart of my father." Theo's deadly stare penetrated Draco's grey eyes. His face wore a calculating expression filled with savagery and intent. "It's all I could think about the whole battle-" Nimble fingers twirled the stake with skill between them. "-how I want to watch him bleed till the life leaves his eyes."

Draco approached him cautiously. Theo was the silent, seething type, and rarely ever spoke of violence. "Yes, well, if we make it out of whatever hell this world will become without the Dark Lord  _ and _ Harry Bloody Potter, I will hold him down for you myself."

Theo and Draco exchanged a lingering look in the pause. The air was thick with tension, the heavy uncertainty weighing on them. They had been friends for a long time, and neither really needed to say much to communicate what they wanted. Draco felt a pull of concern for the friend who was much like a brother. Both of them were only children when they met, and over the years they relied upon each other in some of their darkest moments. Last year, Theo saw him unravel with the Great Task set before him by the Dark Lord, and without judgement, stood beside him while he helped Death Eaters break into a school full of children. He had exposed every one of his demons before this man, and now Theo was telling him of his.

While they were not talking to one another, Pansy climbed up the ladder. "Draco, you go sit with Astoria," she demanded, poking him in the chest with her nail-bitten finger. "She needs someone to take care of her, and this couch is calling my name," she explained, collapsing onto the cushions, causing a puff of dust to escape the seams.

"Don't you dare think you can order me around, Pans. I will do this for you, but we are fucking even. Got it?"

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say," she retorted sarcastically. "Send Blaise up for me, will you? It's cold up here."

Draco ignored her, and turned to Theo, raising a brow in question, "You cool?"

"Yeah, sure, cool," Theo snapped with an acerbic bite and looked away with an eyeroll. Standing up smoothly, he announced, "I'm bloody starving. I'm going to go nick some food from the kitchens. Doubt my father will even be here." After a few moments of arguing, they decided food was worth the risk and Theo left for the kitchens.

A few moments later, Draco took his place beside the sleeping Astoria. Her face was no longer pulled taught with the grimace of grief, and the tears had stopped, leaving her cheeks with a sticky sheen. The quick splash in the sink made a dent in his disheveled appearance, but he surely fared no better than her. His mind refused to settle, swirling in a multitude of directions, and confusing his emotions which tried of their own accord to sort themselves out. He was not raised to emote; it is just not what pureblood men do. Compassion is a weakness, caring leaves you vulnerable. But Pansy used that word,  _ care _ , when she asked him to look over Astoria. The implications reached beyond just this night; they always do with Pansy. She would milk this favor she was calling in for everything it's worth and then some. But he supposed he did owe Pansy a great deal. She'd covered for him quite a few times in their past, and because of that, he would have to figure this caring thing out. While he never felt for Pansy the way that he assumed she did for him, he did feel a sense of obligation to her for keeping his secrets and sharing his bed.

Pushing aside thoughts of sharing a bed with Pansy  _ \- Yuck! -  _ Draco focused on Transfiguring another bed for himself. It was still daylight out, as evident by the glow coming through the damaged eaves, but the exhaustion was becoming unbearable, and he needed to lie down before he passed out.

Blaise noticed his friend's close proximity to the sleeping witch, and took the opportunity to tease. "Watch out for that one, mate. Next thing you know, she'll be screaming your name," his voice carried up the loft steps. "You'll have to let me know if the carpet matches the drapes," Blaise muttered as his face disappeared into the loft.

"You're disgusting, Zabini," Draco growled out toward the now empty ladder rungs.

_ It's going to be a long fucking few weeks holed up here with the despot, the grouch, the jester, and the cripple _ , he mused with an eyeroll. How Blaise even has a sense of humor at this juncture is unfathomable.

Draco settled into the makeshift bed and put the knapsack under his head as a pillow. With his mother's gold chain clutched in his right hand, and an unconscious Astoria on his left, he cast a  _ Muffliato _ for the onslaught of tears he knew were coming. All of the gold in Gringotts could not dissuade the emotions pressing heavily upon his chest, urging their release.

Draco fought against the impending assault; this was all too much, and he did not want to - no, he could not - deal with it right now. His body was physically ill with the anxiety and fear of the Battle as it left him. His skin crawled with fire all over it, and he rubbed his hands frantically over his arms and thighs in an attempt to dissuade it. His restless stomach churned violently, threatening another attack. His eyes suffered from lightning bolts that struck behind them at random intervals, shooting pain straight to the top of his skull. And every time he closed his eyelids he smelled blood; metallic, rancid, and heavy - filling his nostrils with the putrid stench of death. His exhausted mind could not focus his breathing, and his lungs shook violently with the panic of hyperventilation.

Forcing his body to a sitting position, Draco pulled his knees close to his chest, head low between them, and calmed himself silently in the all too familiar mantra.  _ One, two, breathe out. Three, four, breathe in. Five, six, breathe out. Seven, eight, breathe in.  _ After what felt like a wizard's lifetime, Draco was able to breathe deeply, and the pain in his oxygen starved lungs seared itself into each capillary on the inhale.

No, this would not be his breakdown, not right now when he needed to survive.

He needed to supress this pain of feeling. He needed to bury it deep inside where it would not breach the surface so he could hold it together. So he could hold himself together.  _ Survive. We are all just surviving. _

Remembering that Astoria took the last Pain Potion, he screamed, albeit weakly, an impassioned, "Fuck!" His mind filled in the gaps that his breath was still too weak to enunciate,  _ bastard-twatting-cunt-fucking-bugger-shit _ .

Pulling the knapsack from behind him, he rummaged through until he found his potions kit from the depths of the highly disorganized bag. Setting out the cauldrons and ingredients was comforting, like saying hello to an old friend. He paused to smell the mixture of yarrow and chamomile leaves, letting the flowery and sweet scent replace the lingering blood he knew was still there, if only in his mind. He felt the smooth edges of unicorn horn and sharp points of the porcupine quills, letting the familiar feeling guide his skilled and calloused fingers to do the dance they often did, grinding them to a fine dust. Last, he grabbed his knife, the handle was made of dragon bone and the blade goblin's silver; it would never rust or dull and was incredibly strong. He used the flat side of the blade and pushed it gently along the top of the poppy pod, squeezing the milk from it's inners. The mechanical movements of potions work could be mundane for average students, but for Draco, it had always been his solace, his salvation. He relished in the certainty of combining ingredients of measured amounts, at precise timing, over specific heat. When done properly, the results were flawless, absolute, positive, guaranteed. The simple act of setting up his substitute work-bench put Draco in a completely different frame of mind. The fear of the battle was a hazy memory on the outskirts of his peripherals, and his focus was only on the potion now.

Once past the most intricate steps of the slicing and stirring, all that was left was adding the final ingredient, syrup of hellebore, before simmering on low heat for five hours.

With the promise of potion nearly in his grasp, Draco sighed in relief as he flopped backwards onto the bed for the second time that day, this time, feeling a lightness of spirit. The daylight had moved over the top of the barn, and would be setting somewhere far off in the distance soon; perhaps in another place - one where the Dark Lord did not terrorize, and the Boys Who Lived were every single one of them. No death, no war; just peace.

He heard a deep sigh come from his left and startled with a jolt at someone being in his company. He had gotten lost in the potions and had forgotten Astoria was even there. She looked to be sleeping still; her face was not quite pleasant but not worried either. He considered this girl who was now in his charge. She had just lost her sister, and he, in essence, had lost his mother. Though he may have left his mother alive, he was still grieving for her. He mourned the loss of her, for the eventuality that would become a reality for her; for the death he had condemned her to.

Watching Astoria sleep, he felt a very small part of his grief resonate with a small part of hers; very different, but very much the same.

_ At least we are not alone, anymore, in our grief. _


	4. Chapter 4

The sensation of running through the shield was like stepping into a cool shower after being outside on the hottest day of summer; refreshing and cleansing. One moment the gates that bordered the Castle were there and the next they disappeared as Hermione ran through them. It was a split second later that the clamor of the battle returned, and she thought for a moment that they were still running for their lives. Moans and cries of pain suffocated Hermione's ears as men, women, children, and even magical creatures lay wounded on the ground; many looked to be dead already, though the agonizing sounds escaping their mouths contradicted that assumption. Others sobbed over their dying loved ones, wails of anguish and grief a cacophony that grated on her sensitive ear drums. She felt George drop her hand, and watched as he ran towards a small group of students. She thought maybe she recognized them from Dumbledore's Army, but their faces were out of place here against this backdrop of torment and misery.

It was clear that they were meant to feel safe here on this side of the shield. The danger was minimal since Death Eaters and anyone with ill intent could not penetrate it, and there even appeared to be stretchers set up to triage the wounded. But Hermione could not reconcile suddenly being safe, yet still only a few feet from danger. She searched her mind for any semblance of logic to expedite her next course of action and came up with nothing. Her thoughts scattered like chaff in the wind, and she struggled to grab onto any one of them before they floated off without her. Unable to rely on reasoning, she was lost. Fight and Flight battled inside of her, and she could only stand frozen while one out-willed the other. Simultaneously fearful and relieved, Hermione did not know whether to run or hide, and it paralyzed her. She stood rooted to the spot where George had left her and stared blankly at the horrible scene in front of her, completely detached as if an observer and not a participant in the battle.

People scurried and moved around her as if in slow motion. She could have been there for a few minutes or a few hours, but she did not know which. All time had ceased while she tried to gain a sense of understanding of what was happening.

A student whirred past her, knocking into her shoulder and spinning her on the spot. Now, she was looking towards the gates. She could no longer see the flaming remains of the Castle, and instead watched everything on the opposite side of the shield where shadows swayed, the background hazy and opaque. She tilted her head towards the shadows, attempting to discern what the figures were, but she could only make out the shield's perimeter. It stood glittering before her as if revealing its secrets to her - the light catching just right to show her the magic that it was composed of **.**

And in an instant she was back inside Hogwarts castle.

Her _favourite table in the library was a strong solid oak, the edges worn and top scratched, but it was the ideal size for her to spread out the amassed collection of tomes and scrolls in just the way she liked. The scent of parchment and ink filled her, comforting. Hermione was sitting at her beloved table, legs crossed at the ankle, an array of parchment fanned out before her, each page covered in her small, neat script. Fifth year was a particularly strenuous one, and she spent a lot of time here, thinking and pouring over her textbooks attempting to absorb as much of it as possible. She was desperate to get all O's on her O.W.L.'s, and spent the majority of her nights revising here. The sunlight poured through the large windows above her as it did precisely this time each day while it moved to the west to nestle into the horizon. She always rushed here after dinner to make sure she secured this spot for herself, and no one else. Surely, if anyone were to discover the perfection that made up this study space, they would be hexing her to keep it. Even the drafty air of the lofty library settled around her in a soothing way; it was cool and refreshing, like rain on a summer's day, and it invigorated her senses and sharpened her mind. Hermione loved this spot, and she did her best thinking here. Looking up to the vacant space in front of the window, she let her eyes and mind wander as she had done so many times before. The dust that collected on the tops of the shelves and in the bindings of neglected books swirled and danced in the sunbeam lighting her revisions. She lifted her fingers and toyed with the sunbeam that flooded through the window, manipulating the dust this way and that. It had always been so fascinating to Hermione that dust could not be felt, but still be always present. If she tilted her head just so, and caught the light in just the right way, she could see the dust fluttering down to come to rest on the pages in front of her. Her fingers found no trace of it on the parchment, though she knew it was there. Light had a habit of doing that; of illuminating the unseen. She adjusted to lounge comfortably into her chair as her fingers composed a dance with the dust, and the cooling draft of the library fell around her once more._

Her palm pressed into the relaxing cooling sensation, and all too quickly she realized she was not in her library at her favourite spot, but in fact standing outside the gates of Hogwarts, outside of the shield. The shield was also the unseen. She cocked her head to the left, and the sun's rays caught it at just the right angle, exposing its borders. The shield glittered in the sunlight, just like her dusty sunbeam. It was a beautiful magic, and she stood admiring it with a palm resting gently upon it. Curiosity grabbed ahold of her senses, her mind too numb to sense the danger, and she pressed her fingers through the shield towards the battle. The tingling cool sensation ignited her forearm as the fiery image of Hogwarts manifested itself before her. Through the hole her hand created in the shield, she could see Death Eaters running, more victims falling, and a few fleeing towards the gates... towards the shield... towards her. They were fleeing towards her! At the forefront was the massive form of Hagrid, barreling expediently. Her mind snapped back to reality in a frenzy, a sudden awareness of where she was and what was happening washed over her. Fear took hold of her body as the reaction caught up with her mind's understanding. Just in time, she jumped out of the way, nearly being toppled over by the half-giant.

Hagrid continued to thunder past everyone to a group off to the side of the lane. He handed over what Hermione now noticed was a body to a man she didn't recognize. She heard Hagrid say, "Take 'er to the castle. They'll fix 'er right up."

Hermione wondered momentarily why they would be taking anyone to the Castle as it was nearly a heap of ash at this point, but she didn't have the presence of mind about her to focus on it. The unfamiliar man held the body in his arms and Disapparated on the spot, leaving Hermione to watch as Hagrid turned and headed back to the shield, presumably to try to rescue anyone else he could. She didn't think to look at who the body belonged to. The identities of the wounded blurred into faceless, nameless blobs at this point, and perhaps it was better that way.

"Minerva, Hagrid," a strong voice beckoned the two Professors from their current tasks. The voice was close to where Hermione stood, frozen again. She watched as Hagrid came closer to the voice. Brain and body still detached, it took her a while to recognize that the voice who spoke to them belonged to Kingsley Shacklebolt. His normal regal, dark purple robes were torn and threadbare, one sleeve ripped completely from its seam, hanging oddly from his elbow. He was standing just a few feet away from her.

Her old Head of House limped towards him. Her once black hair, now streaked with silver and dust, fell from her usually tidy chignon in an unkempt pile around her shoulders. The robes she wore were tattered and soaked with blood in places, and she was holding her arm against her side in such a way that made Hermione wonder if she had a few broken ribs. She had known Professor McGonagall for many years now, and often saw her after class hours in her house coat and slippers solving some crisis or hysteria, but this was the worst Hermione had ever seen her. In spite of the disheveled state of her robes and acute pain that affected her movement, the older woman still radiated composure. She was strong, and Hermione watched in awe as she moved about instructing students to grab rusty tins - Portkeys it appeared - as they disappeared from sight.

"Minerva, please help the rest of the students out of here," Kingsley spoke again, his booming voice ringing in her ears. "The shield won't hold for much longer."

The group now stood right beside her, and she turned her head to follow their eyes. Together they observed a ripple break through the the calm opaqueness of the shield. It reminded Hermione of the way a still pond would swell after a pebble had been thrown in. Ron taught me how to skip rocks at the lake in the Forest of Dean last month, she recalled sadly. The memory didn't quite penetrate her heart which felt numb and tingly as if she had put it in an ice bath awaiting transplant. She would need a new heart to replace this one; she wasn't even sure it was still beating.

Shacklebolt continued to address Hagrid and McGonagall urgently. "When that shield comes down, whoever is left here will need to fight for their lives. The Death Eaters are not giving up, and they currently outnumber us." Despite his dilapidated state, Kingsley was commanding and authoritative, and Hermione found herself wanting to follow him, to be guided by his words.

"We need to regroup," he pressed, "and get these people to safety. The people who are coming through the shield are less and less, and if we wait for the last few we will miss our chance to save the many."

Turning to Hagrid, he asked, "What is it looking like on that side? Are there many left we can help or is my assessment correct?"

Hagrid looked down at the ground, shaking his shaggy head in answer. "No. S'no good. The ones that can't run are bein' killed. The Death Eaters aren't leavin' anyone alive."

Looking at the scene around him, Kingsley nodded in confirmation of his decision. "Let's start to clear out, and we'll just leave a few to guide the stragglers to safety." He steered McGonagall gently by the shoulders as he spoke, turning her towards a group of students. "Minerva, get these people to the castle." Over his shoulder he addressed the half-giant. "Hagrid take the creatures, and get them up to the mountains."

Hermione remained in her spot, boots firmly planted in the damp earth, hands hanging loosely at her side. Any thoughts that came through were disjointed and muddled, and she could not be bothered to make sense of them. Instead, she watched in childlike fascination as a small goldfinch hopped on one foot through the blood stained gravel of the entryway path. She bent down to put her finger out and welcomed the bird to perch onto her hand. It hopped on without hesitation onto a wobbly foot, and she brought it close to her nose to whisper, "You're another casualty of battle too." It should have struck Hermione as odd to be so concerned for the one legged bird, but at this moment, her heart was so fractured she only had room for this small creature and no one else. She walked a few paces to set the bird on the branch of a bush where it fluttered its wings appreciatively and took flight.

Hagrid was moving towards three house elves sitting in the grass, where they were nursing a wounded elf who was staring blankly at the sky. He stopped abruptly and met Hermione's eyes briefly in recognition. Turning to Kingsley he hollered, "Eh, Kings! I think that's Hermione standing right there. Everythin' alright 'ere Hermione?"

Kingsley spun on the spot towards where Hagrid stood staring. He rushed forwards, firm hands catching hold of her by the shoulders, imploring her to look up into his dark face. "Hermione, are you hurt? Do you need any medical attention?" His voice sounded far away, like it was underwater, and she realized with the strangled sound that she might be in a bit of shock. He put his arm around her and began to guide her away from the shielded gates.

Still feeling confused, she shook her head in the negative to his questions while she looked back at the shield. Her feet moved mechanically beside his. "Kingsley... what is this?" she finally managed to speak through the disorientation, and when she did the dam in her mind burst with clarity. The flood of hundreds of questions attempted to spill out at once, and she heard herself ask one of them, "How did we get through, but the Death Eaters aren't?"

Shaking his head he replied quietly, bending his mouth close to her ear so only she would hear, "There's no time to explain right now. I'm sending you to Shell Cottage. The other Order members are already there." Kingsley picked up the butterbeer bottle from the pile of rubbish at his feet, and held his wand to it whispering, "Portus." The bottle momentarily glowed icy blue, activating the Portkey, as Kingsley lifted his head searching the crowd for a particular face. "Ah, George, come. You and Hermione need to take this Portkey. I have it timed to leave in two minutes." Hermione felt dazed, and stared in disbelief at such a simple solution as a Portkey to a Weasley residence being their salvation.

"Wait, what about Katie and Lee and the others?" George pressed, gesturing around at the few students sitting on the dirt covered stones of the path that led to Hogsmeade. "Seamus is hurt, and Katie is still in shock... They need help."

"They will go to Kilchurn Castle where we have set up a safe house," Kingsley insisted, his tone firm. "Madam Pomfrey is already there along with other capable people that can help care for the wounded. They will be safe." He bent his head to lean close to George and Hermione whispering, "We don't know who we can trust right now."

"That's bollocks! We know you can trust them," George replied incredulously, shock colouring his tone. He looked over to Hermione for agreement, and she nodded, unsure of what was being insinuated.

Kingsley shook his head again. " We have to make sure everyone is safe, and risking Order members during the confusion is not an option. Kilchurn Castle isn't far from here, and it has every protection we could place on it. Minerva is the Secret Keeper. Right now, I need you to get to Shell Cottage. Your parents are waiting for you."

George still looked ready to argue, but the Portkey began to glow again, and Kingsley roughly shoved it into George's chest gesturing for Hermione to touch it, and they disappeared.

The already uncomfortable pulling sensation of traveling by Portkey was made all the worse by the aching dead feeling inside her chest. She had to face Mrs. Weasley and take another son away from her. I can't do this, Hermione thought to herself briefly in the disorientation of the swirl pulling her body. All too soon, her feet hit ground only to have her legs give way, and she rolled to the ground with George. She stood with the aid of the hand he offered, and noted they had landed about a hundred yards from the Cottage. The sloping, sand covered dunes partially blocked the small house from view, revealing only the shell covered roof and two tall smoke stacks.

She could hear the rhythmic waves of the sea splashing onto the beach. The air, thick with salt, tickled her nose, and the sensation briefly reminded Hermione of her time here with Harry and Ron, recovering from the Cruciatus and planning their great vault break-in. She couldn't suppress the faint smile that tugged at her lips with the memory. We made the best team. The warmth, which accompanied the thought of her best friends, passed through her as quickly as it had arrived. She shivered as her heart sent bone chilling ice through her veins, returning her to a carefully guarded state of numbness.

She glanced at George standing beside her, and followed his eyes to where he was looking towards the Cottage. His hickory brown eyes, normally alight with mischief and spirit, were cold and dark as if someone had walked inside his heart and turned out the light. His face looked so strange with the grimace it held. It occurred to her, she had rarely seen his cheeks so hollow as they were usually pulled tight with a smile and framed in laugh lines. She imagined her own tawny brown eyes now resembled decaying wood. They, whoever they are, say the eyes are the windows to the soul, and Hermione's soul certainly felt dead enough. Her heart ached with pain, persistent in its reminder that she was still alive. She didn't understand how she was still breathing, though.

Doesn't my heart have to beat to live?

The pair stood together in silence, staring at the swaying grasses as the gentle breeze swept over them, the scent of sea lavender carrying in the wind. The pain in her chest that demanded her attention with each beat of her heart never went away, but somehow it didn't break her down either. Amazingly, George it seemed, was holding himself together as well. She drew upon his strength and fortified her knees that were weakly attempting to hold the weight of her exhausted frame made heavier by the emotions pressing upon her.

"GEORGE! Hermione! Is that you?!" a deep voice broke their stillness from far away. They could hear other muffled voices headed their direction. George turned to Hermione, their pain mirrored in each other eyes, and a silent question was both asked and answered. No, she would never be ready for this. His sad eyes nearly broke every ounce of her fortitude, but she felt him grab her hand and somehow managed to suck back in the outpouring that threatened to take control. A single tear slipped past her lashes, and they began to walk towards the voices.

Charlie, the second eldest Weasley son met them first. Mr. Weasley was only a few paces behind, followed by Bill, the eldest Weasley and Secret Keeper of Shell Cottage. "Oh, George, it is you. We were getting rather worried. Come to the house, Mum is…" Charlie stopped mid-sentence at the sight of the pair.

Mr. Weasley looked from Charlie's gaze to the two broken faces. "Hermione, where's Ron?"

The anguish inside her body, her heart, her soul could no longer be contained. It left her like a dragon breathes fire - hot, painful, uncontrolled. She crumbled to the sand, gasping for air as the tears flowed forcefully, flooding her mouth and face and neck with the hot, salty, mucusy offerings of her despair.

Her heart did beat; it beat so painfully she wanted to claw at her flesh and break her ribs apart just to grab her heart and throw it away.

She tried to bury herself in the sand, taking the jagged granules and scraping them over her skin to abate the pain. Anything to not have to feel this agony. She wanted to die here, in this hole she would dig for herself, alone. Just let me alone.

Hermione was completely lost inside herself, the grief overtaking her. If people were talking to her, she did not hear them. The only sound that permeated her was the waves crashing upon the shore. Over and over, without ceasing, they broke. And it was as if she was there in the ocean's depths, drowning. Her sense of direction disoriented by the grief tugging and pulling at her, keeping her down under the water. There was no light here, nothing to indicate the surface through the salt-wet tears drowning her. They continued to submerge her into her watery grave, and she wanted to go with them. She wanted to follow her grief into the black darkness, and never look back. It felt as if her lungs were filling with water, the pressure building with every breath, causing a new panic to overwhelm her. How can I live in a world without them? My Harry. My Ron. Who am I without two thirds of the trio?

A set of strong arms scooped her from the ground, pulling her out of her ocean of misery to the surface. The water still covered her nostrils and coated her tongue, salty and heavy and full of sorrow.

"Let... me... down," Hermione protested feebly through ragged breaths, trying unsuccessfully to wiggle free of her captor's hold. She didn't want to leave. She just wanted to drown, or bury, or die.

Her efforts were defeated easily by the capable arms restraining her own. The arms squeezed tighter, holding her firm in place as lips came close to her ear. She could feel the breath on her face, and before she could reach up to bat it away, he whispered, "I want my heart to stop too."

Her breath tore itself from her lungs as the words washed over her soul laid bare. The voice belonged to George, and he was in the Ocean of Grief with her, struggling against his own misery and pain. He had dragged her by the wrist to the surface, and forced the water from her lungs with the vice of his hold. He had breathed life into her mouth by the pain in his heartbreaking words. And with those words, her body slackened against him, the now silent tears still wringing themselves from her limp form. She didn't have to fight against the depths anymore, George had carried her from them.

Hermione's body was too weak to support itself, and she lifted her arms to hook around the back of his neck, and buried her face into his chest. He lifted her by the knees into his secure arms and carried her with him as he walked. Hermione clenched her eyes tightly, and breathed deeply as George's presence calmed the sea of torment sloshing around inside of her.

She could tell they were inside now because the air had stopped moving, and the shifting light behind her closed lids turned dark. The smell of beef and baking tart overwhelmed her senses, and she was sure she would retch. Hermione obscured her face against George's chest once more and didn't protest when he sank to the floor, still cradling her against him. She didn't have any strength left in her to fight anyways. His body was warm, and she was so very cold - might have even been dead except for the thundering pulse in her ribs she very much longed to cease. Just stop beating, she willed her heart grimly, I can't do this without them.

Her breathing was rough, and she noticed the last few tears roll from her jaw, her soul completely emptied and numb once more. She peeked her face up to see that he had sat them in a corner at the end of the hallway, away from the bustle of the others in the house. The din still permeated the air, and if she could have, she would have cast a Silencing Charm so they didn't have to hear what was happening in the room beyond them. I don't want to be here.

The reassuring pressure of George's arms around her back kept her from slipping back into the depths of her Grief Ocean, grounding her to whatever semblance of reality existed here now. The waves that crashed over her started to fade, and her mind began to clear.

Mr. Weasley's voice echoed down the narrow hall as he spoke calmly to his wife. "Molly, dear, I think you should come sit down."

Hermione imagined a worried Molly pacing in front of the stove, sweat gathering in her frizzy red hair as she stirred frantically, determined to busy herself with feeding the masses.

"Bill, get your mother some tea," Arthur spoke again, this time to his son. His voice was closer now, having moved from the kitchen and into the sitting room beside them. She thought she detected a twinge of pain hidden there in the calm of his voice. Under his breath he told Bill, "And add a splash of brandy."

Hermione's heart still beat under her ribs, pain aching through her with each pulse. She breathed deeply, inhaling George's scent. The singed collar of his robes smelled of smoke, no doubt from stray hexes, but it was overwhelmingly similar to the twin's Wildfire Whizbangs that they set off in the Great Hall during O.W.L.s. Hermione began to giggle at the association, but the inappropriate reaction caught in her throat on its way out. The twin's fireworks. The twins who were no longer Fred & George, but just George. Her heart felt like it was torn open all over again, raw and burning. A new wave of grief splashed over her head as the tears fell heavily once more.

Molly's shrill voice rang through the small cottage, and it rattled the walls as she yelled, "Arthur Weasley, don't you dare treat me like a child!"

Hermione's tears made a hasty retreat at the shock of Molly's outburst, and she tilted her head forward to look at the scene unfolding in the room beside them.

"I know that someone came in," Molly demanded, rounding on her husband. Apparently she had refused to sit per his request. "Who is it?" she trailed off as she began to take a mental inventory of the locations of each of her children. "We're still waiting for Percy, Ron..." the words tangled in her throat as she tried not to say Fred, "... and George."

Mrs. Weasley began pacing the small room, worrying her hands along the seam of her robes. Her hair was a mass of wild curls around her head, and there was a red, angry welt across her right cheek. Her once mint green coloured robes now resembled a moss covered swamp. Hermione watched in horror as the witch's face crumpled into a distraught grimace and burned redder than a fire engine. "You - tell - me - right - this - minute, Arthur Weasley!"

She continued, the anger and fear breaking itself from her in a piercing scream. "Was it one of our boys?"

Hermione felt the cramped room fall into a stillness as their collective breath held in anticipation of hopefully positive news. The panic of the truth soon to be spoken out loud enveloped her. She focused on George's heart beating underneath her cheek, steady and strong. He was alive. She was alive. We are alive, she repeated to herself over and over. She melted into his chest a bit more, letting the timing of his heart beat set the pace of her own, the expanding of his lungs encouraging the normal pace of hers. He tensed underneath her, instinctively gripping her shirt in his hands, and pulling her closer into him. She felt something wet fall down past her ear and soak into her shoulder. He was crying into her hair, and Hermione struggled to imagine what his face would like with tears on it, but could not tear her eyes away from Molly in order to look.

Arthur grabbed his pacing wife by the shoulders. "Molly, STOP! Listen to me!" The tone in his voice halted her steps and she looked up into his eyes, uncertain. Loosening his grip, the grief-stricken blue eyes of Arthur looked into the eyes of his beloved wife. He spoke the most heart wrenching words Hermione could imagine, "Ron is gone."

And she broke. Drowning again in her Ocean of Grief, Hermione sobbed into George's chest. The sounds in the room escaped her, and it was just her here, crumbling under the weight of everything she had lost. She vaguely felt George moving to stand, and hardly registered being placed onto the cushions of a couch.

Hermione let the water drag her under, let it consume her. She had no business living in a world where Ron didn't. Where Harry didn't. She stopped fighting, and purged her shattered soul into the white cushion where she wept, curled in on herself like a child.

"But… but who…but... he..." Molly struggled with words that wouldn't come, and the couch began to shake with the quaking of her sobs. Her tormented cries filled the room as they dislodged themselves with force from her throat; the sound pierced Hermione in her gut. She felt responsible for this, for Ron. Guilty for all of the pain this woman, who was very much a mother to her, was feeling.

George was sitting between them, one hand holding his mother's and one pressing into Hermione's hair, her face still buried in the seat, tears saturating the cushions. Arthur's strangled cry broke above them where he held Molly, and Hermione felt the crushing weight of George covering her back where he drenched her in his own misery. Together they fell into the endless depths of their Ocean of Grief. Two hearts, broken beyond repair, knitting themselves together in their despair.

Minutes passed to hours as she emptied herself into the vast waters. She let herself be tossed this way and that in the current with the ever present George floating alongside her. Together they lost themselves in the depths, and eventually she let all consciousness escape her. Coming to, Hermione realized she must have fallen asleep in the midst of her drowning. She was grateful, and closed her eyes again hoping to fall helplessly back into slumber where she couldn't be reminded of the pain she felt; the pain which shred apart the fibers of her soul.

She hazily took in her surroundings. There was a soft blanket draped over her body, and the cushions her face was pressed against were damp. Listening intently, she could hear sounds of the waves from what she assumed was an open window, and the sniffling of someone softly crying coming through them. Raising her head, she realized she was alone in the living room now, and sat up wondering where everyone was.

On shaky legs, she slowly made her way through the door adjoining the living room into the kitchen. Mrs Weasley stood next to the stove, her back to Hermione as she stirred a pot of what smelled of beef and dumpling stew. Hermione turned, prepared to leave the grieving woman alone, but was interrupted as Arthur blocked her exit.

"Hermione, I'm so glad you're awake now. I hope you didn't mind us giving you a sleeping draught."

Shaking her head, she tried to remember taking a potion, but couldn't recall anything of the sort. Arthur, misunderstanding her movement, added, "Good, you needed the rest."

"How long have I been asleep?" she asked Mr. Weasley.

Coming around the table, Mrs Weasley approached her placing a bowl of leftover cottage pie on the table. "Hermione, dear. You've been asleep for over twenty-four hours; you must be starving. Sit, I will get you something to drink."

Hermione watched as the woman, who was a surrogate mother of sorts, turned and hurried to the fridge. Her robes were now clean and her hair was pulled up, but Hermione noticed her eyes were swollen and red rimmed, and there were wrinkles imbedded in her apron from worrying her hands in it, the already worn edges fraying further. She set a glass of juice in front of Hermione and prodded her gently on her shoulder. "Eat, dear. You need your strength."

Hermione, in her weakened state, couldn't even pick up her spoon to initiate scooping a bite into her mouth. The feeling of her empty stomach shrinking in on itself matched the feeling of her crumbling heart. She was violently nauseous with both the thought of eating food, and the thought of going on with living as if nothing had happened. How can I just sit here and eat when they are dead?

The back door opened then, and Bill came in. "Kingsley just sent a Patronus. He will be here tomorrow evening to discuss the events and where we will go from here. He is bringing others with him. We should expect to have some long term guests."

Hermione wondered who else was here already. Who was Kingsley bringing? Who else had been lost? The Weasley's continued conversing without including her in the conversation, and she was grateful. She didn't want to talk to anyone anyways. While she sat and tried to calm her stomach enough to take a bite of the should-be-comfort food, she caught bits and pieces of their conversation. These people talked casually of what had happened, and what they supposed the plans were for the future. Things like, "We will have to gather the troops. Maybe Hagrid can appeal to the giants again," and, "It will be nice to visit with Percy, I haven't seen him in ages," reached her ears.

Hermione suddenly found herself angry. Was it not just a day ago that they lost loved ones? Their own sons and brothers? Yet, here they acted like it didn't matter. She didn't want to suppress the agony she was living in just because there was still work to do. She couldn't. How could she pretend the world wasn't crumbling around her? She was supposed to drown in her misery, not sit here and make small talk.

Pushing herself roughly from the table, her chair scraped loudly along the stone floor. She stormed across the kitchen and out the back door, leaving it to slam forcefully against the wooden frame. She vaguely heard Mrs Weasley shout out, "But Hermione, dear, you haven't even touched your food…"

She found herself fuming, and for the first time in over a day she welcomed this new sensation. It was much easier to feel her anger bubbling under her skin, rather than the ragged feeling of fear or pain. This feeling overwhelmed her senses, and she let it take control. She lengthened her stride, the pull in her muscles aching in relief, as she ran for what felt like hours down the wet of the beach. She eventually made her way up the side of a sloping sand dune. The sand shifted under her feet as she struggled up, and one step turned to three, but she pushed through seeking refuge in the burn in her lungs and the soreness in her body. When she reached the top she sat down, knees tucked to her trunk and arms folded around them,and faced the ocean away from the Cottage. There was a cramp in her stomach that made it hard to catch her breath, but she felt alive for the first time in days as the burn of her anger seethed through her. She must not have run very far, since she could still hear the commotion of the house, but she focused instead on the sound of the waves crashing against a nearby cliff. She listened to the seagulls as they called to each other, and wondered if they felt pain when one of their fellows perished.

Hermione sat there for hours, letting her brain over think, and letting her anger lead her thoughts. She continued to sit there even as the sun began to set, turning the soft blue to vibrant pink and bright orange in a brilliant display over the sea. Even the sun seemed to be angry as it painted the sky with fire. As darkness drifted up, overtaking the light, she remained in her spot on the cooling sand. The pang in her food starved stomach overtook the pain in her forlorn heart. The anger escaping her finally, she was left with a throbbing head and a mouth so dry it felt like she had been eating the sand. She didn't notice when it began to grow colder, but the breeze carried a chill that made her body start to shiver and brought her mind back to this place; this place where she sat on the sandy hill, this place where she swam in thoughts and feelings that pulled and pushed until she was drained.

She hadn't noticed someone had approached until the sand shifted underneath her. George adjusted himself next to her, legs crossing at the ankles and leaning backward on his hands. "Going to stay out here all night?"

She glanced sideways at the man, a man she hardly took notice of before, but somehow seemed to gravitate towards her now. They had been tossed together roughly during the life altering events of the last two days. He was there beside her in these big moments where big feelings demanded to be felt. They felt them together. It occurred to her how odd, and out of place it was to see him sitting here next to her without his side kick twin making a joke with him. His eyes that always sparkled with life looked sunken and haunted. She sniffed slightly and inhaled the scent of spice and shampoo that carried on the gentle breeze floating between them. She noticed he was clean; his hair no longer hung around his face in dirty curtains but was brushed back and fluffy. His clothes were once again clean, and there was a small scar on his forehead that she assumed had been recently healed.

Looking down at herself, she took inventory of her appearance for the first time. Her jeans were torn at the knee, and blood soaked through the frayed edges. Her palms were covered in tiny scrapes, and her nail beds throbbed from being packed so tightly with black soot and dirt. She noticed the shirt she was wearing stunk of blood and sweat. Reaching up to touch her hair, she realised that, for once, it was not frizzy, but matted to her head in unruly knots from grease and grime.

She looked away from him, huffing while crossing her arms, feeling the ebb of anger begin to simmer again. "Why are you here, George?" she snapped, a little too harshly.

"They sent me to get you, of course," he said as he reclined back on the sand hands behind his head. "When we were kids, we'd come here on Holiday to visit my aunt. Fr-" he stopped, his voice thick, but trudged on, "Fred and I… we always loved climbing the dunes and watching the stars. We planned many of our best hijinks on top of this very hill."

Hermione's simmering anger dissipated immediately, only to be replaced with a deep sadness for all that George had lost. He has, perhaps, suffered the most of all of us. A chill seeped into her bones. The cold reminded her that though she felt she were dead, she was still very much alive. She leaned back slowly, wrapping her arms together as a pillow under her head. The stars really were amazing up here; they shone so bright against the black of the sky and twinkled as if inviting them to come up to the heavens to play.

"You can't see stars like this in the city. There's so much light pollution, and even when you drive to the country it's never dark enough," she offered. Filling the awkwardness of silence with random facts had always been her specialty. In reality, she didn't know what to say to George. He had just lost his most intimate friend and partner in crime; his twin. There are no words to fill that void; nothing she could possibly say to appeal to the broken state of his heart. She wanted to tell him that she understood even a fraction of what he was feeling, and that she was broken too. But he knew. He saw her, and she was comforted, if only selfishly, that she didn't need to explain herself to him. "George, how did we get here?" she breathed, the dejection in her voice painfully acute.

A tear escaped her lashes, slowly falling down her cheek, but was quickly brushed away before finding it's way to the sand. She looked over to George, his fingers still close, waiting for the next drop. She couldn't look away; his hickory eyes held hers intently and echoed the pain she felt too. She could swear she heard the way his heartbeat against his chest, stuttered and broken.

"Hermione, come down to the house," he said gently, almost as a whisper. "Eat and bathe. I'll keep them from you, for now," he assured her. It was the one thing she needed the most right now - solitude. And with that, George was rescuing her again.


End file.
